


In the white countenance confession

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Civil War, F/M, Polar Vortex, Post-Canon, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-10-24 20:56:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17711435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: An unexpected snowstorm brings people together, makes teachers out of students, and lets secrets be whispered and revealed.





	In the white countenance confession

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/gifts).



_Out of the bosom of the Air,_  
_Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken_  
_Over the woodlands brown and bare,_  
_Over the harvest-fields forsaken,_  
_Silent, and soft, and slow,_  
_Descends the snow_

* * *

 

 A violent gust of wind attacked Chaplain Hopkins as he exited the former hotel. The blast, icier than most he had felt in Alexandria, made him bury his hands in the pockets of his coat and hide his face in his new striped scarf. As by premonition, his sister had knitted it and sent it for Christmas, a much appreciated gift, yet one he had never believed he would have needed; but need it he did, as Virginia was hit by a cold spell unrecalled even to old folks’ memory, that covered the roofs and awnings with a shimmering frost, blinding white in the morning sun, whose mighty warmth was vanquished by the Northern air before it could reach the ground. Below the storm, everything lay frozen and grew progressively camouflaged with the snow that had begun to fall just as the temperature had climbed by a few meager degrees, exchanging one wintery nuisance for another.

Quickly, Henry hurried across to the camp, cradling the parcels he carried against his chest as much for warmth as to prevent losing grip on them, should his unsuspecting foot meet some unseen ice and lose the bout. Under the tents, nothing stirred, the beds and their occupants evacuated to warmer refuges: the ill ones, under Mary Phinney and Samuel Diggs’s ceaseless petitioning with Dr. Foster, to Mansion House, and the hale to what had since become colloquially known as Mansion Hut. Initially a warehouse, it acted now as school, church, dining hall, and now sanctuary against a winter much unknown and feared by its denizens, constantly tended and reassured by the care and experience of Charlotte Jenkins.

Against the swirl of snowflakes and his bulky load, he struggled with the heavy door, managed to crack it open and squeeze through, and it shut with a loud clang. At once, five pairs of eyes were upon him: four brown and one dark blue, the latter particularly alight with relief and mirth upon finding him.

« Ah, just on time, Chaplain!” Emma Green greeted him brightly from the blackboard. With her blue velvet coat and fur-trimmed hat in the humble locale, she looked every bit the charitable Lady come to visit the poor tenants of her land, but it appeared she did not let her rich garments affect her task; from afar, he could see that the hem of her skirt was wet from the snow-laden trek, and white smudges of chalk dusted the dark fabric of her mantle where she had absent-mindedly brushed off her hands, a habit taken from expecting an apron where now none was worn.

Unaware of his evaluation of her state, she updated him on the day’s curriculum: “We were going over the alphabet and for the letter S, Lucy smartly provided “snow”. The children have all been bombarding me with questions about it ever since, but beyond reciting _Snow-flakes_ , I’m afraid my expertise on the matter downright pales next to yours. Would you care to instruct us all?”

“Of course.” He crossed on to the desk, depositing his boxes, and brushed the snow from his coat before returning his attention to his eager audience. “What would you children like to know?” he asked the small group huddled before him, each fully covered in a blanket so that only their faces peaked through. The stove roared behind them, surrounded by their sullen parents and comrades, as this was all their first taste of yet another hardship that would greet them along their travel to freedom.

“Is it always this cold, up North?” anxiously asked a small boy.

“No, Simon,” Henry answered, leaning back against the desk. “There are all four seasons there, with summer as you know it, hot and humid, with the sun setting even later at night; but autumn is much more beautiful, with a nice breeze to help you sleep, and the leaves in the trees turning all shades of fire, matching the pumpkins in the fields. Yes, winter is longer, and colder, and darker than here, but it only makes spring all the sweeter, when the sun finally warms the air, melts the snow, and nature blooms back to life. Makes the maples run with sweet water, from which we make the best syrup you’ll ever taste on your morning pancakes.”

An older girl was not convinced. “What do you do, then, all through the long winter? How do you not freeze?”

“Well, Abigail, there are many wild furry animals in the North; trappers catch them and we use their pelts to dress our clothes, as on Miss Green’s quite fetching hat here,” he gestured gallantly to his colleague, who only raised her eyebrows at the offhand compliment. “We also have very sturdy sheep: they give us plenty of good wool, from which we make warm coats, mittens and hats. Then we can go outside and enjoy the snow.”

“Can you eat it?”

Both adults laughed. “You can, David, but it won’t keep your belly full,” Henry replied. “For that, we make preserves and stock our cellars all through the fall harvest, and have plenty of shops and stores with food to keep us well supplied with what we cannot grow.”

“Then what _do_ you do with snow?” asked the smallest girl, pushing away a black curl that had escaped from her hood.

“Not much, Lucy. Adults just shovel it out of the roads and porches and pray for it to melt, mostly. But children! They have the most fun with it. They can slide on it, with wooden sleds, and go as fast as a horse-drawn carriage if they find a large enough hill. They can skate on frozen ponds, with metal blades affixed to their boots, and feel as if they are flying, soaring through the air like eagles. They can build forts, and attack them with snowballs. But you need special snow for this. Snow with a very special sound,” he added as if revealing the Holy of Holies.

« Snow can make different _sounds_?!? » Abigail frowned dubiously.

« Of course it can!” Henry enthused, as if offended by such sacrilegious talk, his hands now speaking as loud as his words. “When it’s light and powdery, it’s noiseless; like walking through clouds, through air. Useless for snowballs. You need snow that’s heavy, wet; that squeezes, like a washcloth in a bath, or fresh pie dough. That’s the only snow that can be molded. When it’s colder, it’s brittle and it crunches, like toast. And when it’s very cold, it shatters and squeaks, like fingernails on a chalkboard. Miss Green, would you care to demonstrate?”

Emma, startled out of her captivated listening, nodded quickly and proceeded to slide her nails on the board, eliciting an acute screech and acuter squeals from the children. “Snow can’t do that!” Simon cried, palms firmly clasped against his blanketed ears. “Nothing can do that sound!”

“Oh, it can, but it has to be very, very cold. And when it is that cold, you'd do best to stay indoors, all warm and huddled next to the fireplace as you are now, with some hot tea and cookies. And speaking of cookies…” he intoned as he took the smallest of the boxes from the desk and opened it to reveal two dozen large sugar-coated gingerbreads. The children gasped and ran up to him, each giddily taking one, before Lucy whisked them away to share with the other former slaves after hastily agreeing to fetch Dr. Diggs.

“Where ever did you get those?” Emma, as she rejoined him by the desk, asked under her breath, below the joyous exclamations of the adults and the loud, content crunching of the children.

“A care package that arrived after its destined owner had sadly passed,” he explained, hopping on to sit on the desk. “I thought our friends here might be more appreciative of them than the rather-well-if-not-dullingly-fed officers and doctors at Mansion House. I hope you will not report me for this Bullenish usurpation of my steward privileges.” Completely candid, he stared at her head on, not even bothering to look apologetic, for he knew she could see right through all his artifices.

She only scoffed. “Would Maid Marion report Robin Hood? Of course I won’t say a word, but I may very well ask for something in return for my silence… and for daring to utter that horrible man’s name,” she replied, with the slightest of pouts, to his greater than slight pleasure. He bowed his head gracefully.

“As I am doubly at fault, and weakened further still by your astute evocation of my childhood hero, you have but state your terms, and consider them granted.”

He waited patiently as she pondered her advantage, debating how best to use it. Finally, her mind was set: a warm smile broke across her face, raising the temperature in his, and she inched closer to him. “Just keep telling me about your beloved winter,” she requested. “You come alive when you describe it so wonderfully to the children. Chaplain Hopkins is quite the somber, proper pastor to his stricken flock, and speaks greatly of heavenly matters, but it’s Henry the Yankee describing the earthly ones I could listen to all day.”

Henry affected a frown, although the slight curl of his lips spoke otherwise. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or worried about your lack of interest in heavenly matters, Miss Green,” he attempted to scold, and failed.

She shrugged and closed the distance between them. “Be either or be both, Henry, but just keep talking… please.” Her gaze was level with his, her eyes steady, the shimmer of her blue gaze a perfect match to the velvet on her breast. He swallowed.

“I’d like to do more than talk of it, one day…” he let his voice and eyes drop, finding the chalk marks upon her coat, and shyly touching his fingertips to dust them from the soft fabric at her hip. “It seems quite a shame that such a fine coat would never meet a winter worthy of it.”

With a shake of her head and a sigh, she dismissed his comment, but not his hand. “It’s a coat for attending church and visiting society at Christmastime, and completely inadequate for the work to be done here, that I still hope to do… one day,” she almost apologized and promised at once.

“I assure you you’d be the envy of all the ladies,” he declared, now daring to look back up, making no further effort to disguise his complete admiration. “The talk of the town.”

Emma leaned in, his knees parting to let her ever closer, her hand reaching up to smooth the scarf at his throat. “If I were,” she murmured, “I assure you it would not be for the coat on my back, but for the generous, handsome man at my arm.”

Her fingers curled around the wool and she pulled him towards her, his hand tightening around her waist in response, when a man loudly cleared his throat behind them.

“You sure you wanted to see me, Chaplain? The Bible study can wait, you look kinda busy.”

Emma dropped her arm and spun around to find a thoroughly amused Samuel Diggs before them. He raised his palms in surrender. “Nothing to worry about, you two; I ain’t seen anything new.”

Still, Emma side-stepped gingerly and Henry jumped off the desk, straightening his scarf, righting his coat. All proper business once again, he took the large box behind him.

“A parcel for you, Samuel. From Boston.”

Samuel frowned, the surprise of the unexpected package clearly evident. There was an envelope affixed to the crate; intrigued, Samuel detached it, tore the letter out, and started reading. As his eyes ran over the paper, his brow relaxed and a smile inched across his lips. By the time he was done, it was a full grin, illuminating his face as they had rarely seen it shine so, hiding a trepidation he was struggling to keep in check.

“It’s from Aurelia. It’s… good. Real good. I might as well read it to you.” With a half chuckle, he started from the top:

_“Dearest Samuel,_

_I’m always so glad to receive your letters. It’s wonderful what you and Miss Jenkins are doing. Caleb described it all to me well and though I can’t be there to help you, I wished to contribute somehow. I spoke of the camp to Miss McAndrews, Nurse Mary’s friend, and she has spoken of it to her church and the many abolitionist societies she takes part in. As a starter, here is something to help with the upcoming winter. It ain’t much for now, and downright nothing next to everything you’ve done for me, but I’ll see that more keeps coming your way, and that the people you send mine be treated as well as you do down South; I’ve attached addresses they should ask for when they reach Boston, they’ll find welcoming friends there._

_Please give my best to Nurse Mary and Doctor Foster and may God bless you and keep you all (but you most of all, Samuel Diggs)._

_Your friend,_

_Aurelia”_

“How nice of her!” Emma exclaimed. “And how cryptic! Please, open the box, I can hardly stand to know what she sent!”

Samuel nodded and tore the string from the package, removing the paper as carefully as his excitement would allow him. He lifted the lid and peaked inside: immediately, his eyes grew to match his smile.

The box was filled with winter accessories. Hats, mittens, scarves, in all shapes, colors and sizes. A dozen sturdy, woolen socks, brand new, never mended. A few knitted sweaters, fit for children, intricate cables running down their length. But, most touching of all, a few toys: a ragdoll, a wooden horse, a stuffed rabbit, a baby rattle.

“Oh, how truly wonderful, Samuel!” cried Emma as she pulled out the items to appreciate the neat stiches, the soft warmth of the wool. “And right when we need it the most!”

“You’ve managed quite a feat,” confirmed Henry; despite his delight, Samuel could only frown in confusion.

“Me? I haven’t done anything. This is from the Boston abolitionists Aurelia spoke to.”

“Yes, but who got Aurelia to Boston to be able to speak to them? You, Samuel.” Henry clasped him on the shoulder, his pride in his colleague apparent. “Your goodness, your selflessness, has made it possible not only for her and her family to escape, but for many more others to benefit from it as well. Every kindness you sow has been returned to us tenfold. So thank you.”

Emma nodded empathically, her eyes darting from one man to the next, before growing wide as an idea struck her.

“With all this, we could dress the children warmly and take them out to the park! They could play in the snow without freezing, just as you described it! There’s a hill there they could slide down. I’m sure we could find something to fill in as a sled, couldn’t we, Henry? Oh, please say yes!” she blustered excitedly, her features alight at the prospect. Henry could only laugh and nod, her humor contagious, and she clapped her hands in joy.

Samuel was not immune to their mirth either. “Excuse me, I just gotta show this to Charlotte and the folks, they’ll be thrilled,” he said, grabbing the box. “You two carry on, Bible study can _definitely_ wait now,” he added with a wink as he hurried back across the room.

They watched him leave and take the exhilaration of the unexpected gift with him. Progressively, they became conscious of how close the other group was, their happy exclamations ringing crystal clear in their ears, when just a few instants passed, they had felt absolutely alone in the universe, in the private bubble of their shared moment. How both so close and so far they now appeared to each other, unbearably so in not knowing which way to move, whether to retreat to safety as they always did, or to finally face the unknown and close the gap.

For an instant, it appeared that Prudence would rule the day once more, Propriety and Restraint as her side, until Henry inhaled sharply. “Carry on, he said. So, uh…where were we again?”

She raised her eyebrows, and he stared at her steadily, almost brazenly, with no fugue in sight. No Prudence to issue the orders, no Propriety nor Restraint to carry them out; could it be he had dismissed them all? After months of longing side glances, the murderous passion of Ayres’ farm, the remorse and avoidance of the days after, could it be that Henry Hopkins, Union Army Chaplain, was finally done hiding from her? That he would at last trust her with his heart, trust them with his soul?

The instant of revelation was sweet, and she savored it. She was about to take a step forward but stopped herself: why not savor it longer? After all, he had made her wait, and chase him, and demand explanations for his sudden guilt-ridden distance. She had been patient, understanding, giving him the space he needed to make his peace. And now that he was finally ready, she would jump into his arms, at the first encouraging word spoken?

No. She may no longer be a Confederate, but she was still Southern. And a lady to boot.

With a lift of her chin, she looked at him innocuously. “Didn’t Samuel mention a Bible study?”

Henry was taken off guard. “Hum, yes, I’d told the adults I’d read from the Gospel of Saint Mark this afternoon, but surely it can wait-”

“Oh no, heavenly matters _must_ come first, you were quite right. I will not have it otherwise.” She took her gloves from her pocket and began to put them on. “Besides, I am due back at the hospital; Nurse Hastings meant to teach me advanced limb stabilization techniques.”

“Oh…good, that will be most useful in the wards.” Although he opined in agreement, she could see confusion cracking through the mask of his usual neutral expression, doubt creasing the brow he tried so very hard to keep relaxed. She rejoiced inwardly at it, but had no wish to be cruel: it was one thing to draw out the pleasure of his desire, but she did not want him to suffer from it... too much.

Clasping the last button at her wrist, she tilted her head and bestowed upon him the brightest of smiles.

“Yes, but hopefully I will not have to make use of this new skill with the children tomorrow. When we go to the park,” she added, eager to use the pronoun, and for him to hear it.

It had the effect she desired: immediately, he perked up, his earlier attention restored.

“As soon as I’m done here, I’ll get us – the children- the very best sled I can manage. And skates, if these can ever be found in these parts,” he assured, perhaps a little too keenly. It was both flattering and unsettling to see she could so readily elicit such a response from him; it had not been much of a challenge from any boy she had known before, but from this man, so wise and grave most of the time, it seemed almost too great a power to wield, too great a responsibility to bear. Too exciting the possibilities this side of him revealed.

“I’m sure you’ll find just the thing, Henry," she assured him as she reached for the door. She drew it open, revealing the whiteness beyond, the snowflakes not waiting for her to step outside to assault her. The blast of cold on her face was bitter, her eyes watering immediately, but for once, she welcomed it, a foretaste of the wonders what awaited her tomorrow.

With a last gaze over her shoulder, she softly added, so that only he could hear it over the wheeze of the wind. "I cannot wait to know how it feels to fly."

**Author's Note:**

> In answer to Fericita's tumblr prompt: "Henry and Emma teaching class at the Contraband camp". Sorry for the delay in filling it!
> 
> Flirty Emmry is back! And it brought some fun run-on sentences with it! And way too many word for what was supposed to be a beer-fuel MomBreak writing night (turns out it took a couple more evenings and beers to finish).
> 
> Can Emma and Henry really both get off work whenever they want to go play in the park with kids? Shut it, Debbie Downer. Of course they can. 
> 
> Title, part of summary and prologue are from "Snow-flakes" which is by …. Longfellow, I believe.
> 
> (Yes I did change the summary the day after posting because it was bothering me to see the story "listing" take up so much room on the archive board).


End file.
